


We All Fall Down

by cameronclaire, nine_in_the_afternoon



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Classic Demon Hunter Turns Into a Demon Scenario, Cold Case Detectives, F/F, F/M, M/M, Redemption, Serial Killers, job searching, spontaneous musical numbers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameronclaire/pseuds/cameronclaire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nine_in_the_afternoon/pseuds/nine_in_the_afternoon
Summary: After dedicating most of your time on Earth to hunting demons, you were hoping for a cushy and relaxing afterlife. Hell isn’t exactly what you had in mind. Every demon in the place seems to want a piece of you, and the notorious Radio Demon that you failed to take down way back when is no exception. Unfortunately, he happens to co-own the hotel that, rumor has it, could be your only ticket upstairs.
Relationships: Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader, Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel) & Reader, Charlie Magne/Vaggie, Reader/Male OC
Comments: 63
Kudos: 196





	1. Hell is a Furry Convention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings in end notes

You’ve been drugged before but this feels worse. 

Like every hangover and flu you’ve ever had all at once. Like something is behind your forehead trying to hammer its way out. You pry your eyes open, just slits, and are immediately assaulted by screaming pink and aqua neon. You inhale sharply and it tastes like you’ve licked the bottom of an ashtray. Heat pricks its way up your nose and coats your throat. You’re parched. 

You take another breath and fight to open your eyes wider. A cityscape yawns above you, brick after brick, in aggressive, gritty, neon-studded glory. The lights bleed in and out of focus like watercolor paints. 

Every muscle in your body demands to stay asleep, but you fight that too, suddenly afraid whoever slipped something in whatever you were drinking may have lethally overdone it. 

The ground beneath you is steaming tar, scraping and burning at your palms. You can smell it. You are lying in the middle of the goddamn street. 

You push up with your elbows until you’re on your hands and knees and you ignore the clanging in your skull and drag yourself away from the painted yellow lines and toward a pink tinted concrete gutter. You don’t get very far. Your wrists give out and your chin meets the blacktop, hard and sharp. You can feel cool blood drip down your throat. 

“Ouch,” says an amused voice overhead. Swift feet shuffle your direction, you can see the blur of combat boots before your eyes shut. “Guess I don’t have to ask if it hurt when you fell from heaven.” You hear the scuffle of feet again. Your arm is carelessly lifted and just as carelessly dropped. “Yo, Brucie! I got another breather over here!”

“‘Bout fuckin’ time, Mac.”

Hard muscles press your rib cage, hands scoop beneath you and you’re being hoisted up. Ordinarily, you’d fight this kind of thing tooth and nail, but you feel like every joint in your body has been sprained. Your head lolls and the back smacks lightly against the road as the man fumbles you. “Mind your halo, sweetheart.” 

The man lifting you chuckles softly at his own joke. You don’t get it, but then again, you’ve been severely drugged. So.

“If you’d quit your flirtin’, we’d be working double time,” complains his companion. 

“Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up, Brucie.” He hefts you up again, grunting with the effort, which your addled brain somehow finds a few seconds to feel offended about. Your head lands on his shoulder and bounces against muscle and bone. His voice doesn’t sound familiar. You pry your eyes open and try to catch a glimpse of face, but he’s wearing some kind of elaborate tiger mask. 

_The fuck?_

You glance down to the arms holding you in search of some identifying feature, but instead you see more orange fur, more stripes, and when his hand flexes as he carries you, a flash of glossy gray claws. Your eyes continue to defy your brain, and slip shut again. You can feel his quick steps across the pavement. 

_Great,_ you think. _I’ve been abducted by Tony the fucking Tiger._

Either that or you’re on some kind of hallucinogen.

You try to speak but find yourself coughing up dust instead.

“Watch the jacket, bitch,” the tiger growls, bumping at your face with his shoulder. 

You cough, harder, onto his throat this time, and feel an aggravated rumble in his chest. 

His companion laughs. You twist and squint again. The companion is dressed in a hyper-realistic alligator costume and a tracksuit. This time your eyes stretch wide open. You glance between them, struggling uselessly against the tiger’s powerful grasp.

“Hh-who?” It’s like scraping the pink insides of your throat red with sandpaper, but you finally manage to get the word out. You’re quiet, but they stop and listen. “Who the fuck are you people?”

“Easy does it, mutt,” the crocodile man warns, and you can hear the harsh snap of his mouth opening and shutting around rows and rows of sharp teeth.

Drugs were never really your specialty, but hallucinogens are seeming more and more viable. 

“You blind? It obviously ain’t a mutt,” the tiger argues, paw on the back of your head, tilting your face in his companion’s direction. “Look it. Purebred German Shepherd.” 

_What?_

You force your voice again, “Is this some kind of… Furry convention?”

Their brows furrow, noses wrinkling. It becomes painfully obvious they are _not_ wearing masks. After a beat both men toss their heads back, open their fanged mouths wide, and laugh. 

“You could call it that,” says the tiger, voice an amused, throaty rumble in your ear. 

“Where are you taking me?” The banging in your head gets louder from your exertions, your panic. There’s a shrill ringing in your ears. “I think I need a hospital.”

The crocodile snorts, his large, scaley nostrils flaring. “Haven’t heard that one before, have we, Mac?” 

“Orientation,” Mac replies, gesturing for you to look upward. “One of the princess’ many, many, _many_ passion projects. But it pays the bills.” 

You barely hear him. Overhead the sky is a vivid, starless, red dawn. Suspended where the sun should be is the grotesquely familiar black outline of a Satanic pentagram. 

You realize where you are. You remember everything. 

You weren’t drugged at all. You got careless. You fucked up. Stepped in your own salt circle. Broke it. Unleashed the demon you had captured. Misfired your gun. Had your guts ripped out of your chest by their bare claws. 

These guys carrying you off now are kittens compared to the shit you usually fight. It’s no wonder you didn’t recognize them for what they are. 

“I’m dead,” you say, and your voice is still weak, but it’s so certain that the ones collecting you halt. “You’re demons. This is hell.”

You’re a demon hunter. You _were_ a demon hunter. When demons find their way back to earth you track them down and snuff them out. You’ve killed hundreds. You save lives. You _saved_ _lives._

“Do you know who I am?” you demand, more harshly.

Brucie smirks. You hadn’t thought his mouth could get any wider. “Should we?”

You stare back up at the sky. _Are you there, God? It’s me, Sam Shepherd._ You’re trying to shout but your voice comes out faint and cracking, “Why the fuck am I in hell?” 

“Don’t take it personal, pup.” The tiger demon plucks at your ear and you don’t have the brain power to wonder why your ear is not where it used to be. “We all fall down.”

You guess you weren’t perfect. You weren’t always successful. 

You certainly didn’t manage to kill all the demons you came across. You were a rookie once. Some of ‘em got away. Some of them haunt your nightmares. Well, one in particular. But, you’ve long since given up on drinking the siren song of the Radio Demon out of your head. You had kind of ~~hoped~~ thought that when the time came, he would be the one to do you in. Poetic like. Full circle. 

Watching these two amicably cart you off, it occurs to you that even the demons you _did_ kill probably had friends, associates, lackeys… 

And now you’re stuck in Hell with the lot of ‘em. 

You’re on the verge of passing out again just thinking about all of it. You press your cheek back against the tiger demon’s shoulder and shut your eyes. “I am so fucked.”

“Still better than a Furry convention, though,” Mac offers, patting your ( _naked?!_ ) back, his claws pricking ever-so-slightly, “right?” 

* *

Radio static. 

Expressive red eyes. 

The chipper voice of an old-timey radio personality. 

Sharp, goldenrod teeth. 

A bright explosion of brass, the thrum of jazz.

A voice. 

His voice.

**Why, you’re early!**

Radio static.

**Welcome home.**

A polite smatter of applause. 

Radio static. 

Silence. 

* *

You wake up hog-tied in the back of a van, but you’re feeling less shitty so you take it as a win. 

The interior is black, no seats, scattered with a few dozen pillows, which might seem more thoughtful if the majority of them weren’t splattered with blood. 

Just as you’re getting yourself into more of an upright position, the van lurches and you sort of change your mind about it being any kind of win. Your ears flatten against the top of your head and a low growl surges in your throat. 

_Wait. My ears did what?_

You give your ears a twitch. Then you glance at your hands, and again are struck by the fact that you are stark naked. Yeah, your whole body is covered with thick caramel and black fur. _But still. What the…_ hell. You chuckle. It’s slightly manic. 

Bleached looking streaks of fur criss-cross your chest haphazardly, a grim commemoration of the claw marks that had been your undoing. It takes you a long minute to work up the nerve to glance behind you but, yeah, there it is. Tail. It curls down. 

What had your personal welcoming committee said? _German Shepherd?_

You cover your mouth with your bound paws to suppress a scream. 

The irony is not lost on you. Your last name is Shepherd. Some of the other demon hunters, hell, even the demons called you The Good Shepherd. You’re still not sure how you feel about the Christian _nom de guerre_ , but you suppose, at this point, it’s a little late to argue. 

Now you, the badass demon hunter, are a walking pun. Further proof you are _actually_ in hell. 

The vehicle jolts again and your head hits a wall. Your vision blurs and you realize you didn’t even make it over to try the back door. Didn’t even try to chew off your restraints. 

Your canines feel sharp against your tongue. You wonder what your mouth looks like now. Your hair. Your eyes. 

_You dumbass,_ you think. _How did this happen?_

Everything fades. 

* *

Radio static. 

Faint music. 

_Babe…_

_There’s something tragic about you._

Radio static. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: Strong language, injuries, minor violence, abduction, references to drugs/drugging people, brief reference to alcoholism, unwanted romantic attention, non-descriptive nudity
> 
> 1\. The Hazbin Hotel characters will be progressively more involved as we go - I promise!
> 
> 2\. I'm a pretty new fan so I'm sorry if I don't have all the details right! 
> 
> 3\. The lyrics Shepherd hears are from Hozier's "From Eden" 
> 
> 4\. I love Supernatural, however this is not intended to be a Supernatural fic. 
> 
> 5\. On a related note - Shepherd’s first name is “Sam” because I wanted something gender neutral for the “Reader” character, and I thought it sounded good. You are welcome to interpret/refer to Shepherd as whichever gender you choose.
> 
> 5\. Thank you for reading:)


	2. Hell is an Empty Coffee Mug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings in end notes

You were happy once—ordinary, even. You didn’t spend your whole life hunting down demons. You had friends who weren’t obsessed with the occult and friends that didn’t know how to land a spin kick. You lived in a flat with a cat and a sunlit reading nook instead of a beater SUV, stuffed with old books, sharp knives, loaded guns, and large bags of rock salt. 

Yeah. Once upon a time, you could listen to jazz music without making your pulse double. You drank coffee without whiskey in it. 

* *

_Years Ago_

“Looks like you could use a refill, Shepherd.” The senior detective’s low voice was soothing and yet could fill a room. It overwhelmed the talk radio flooding your ears. 

You pressed pause, plucked out your earbuds, and set down your pen. You spun your desk chair to face the crisply dressed man, who was tapping at the rim of your empty coffee mug, and listening to the metallic clink.

“Hm?”

He smiled knowingly, stretching the blossoming flowers tattooed along the line of his jaw, and scooted your mug an inch to the right. “Everyone else in the office left over an hour ago.” 

You winced. “Not everybody…” Your eyes widened, glancing around the neat, gleaming surfaces and clean glass half-walls of the police precinct to see empty desks and blank computer screens. “Oh. Damn.” 

You were newly promoted from lowly beat cop to detective, back then, and eager to impress. But more than that, you were whole-heartedly devoted to the slim, browning case file and the yellowing contents strewn across the desks of you and your team members. 

“You know, rookie,” the detective crouched and leaned an arm on your desk, fixing you with a hard look, though he could never quite keep his smirk in check, “the best thing about working cold cases is _you_ don’t have to work late, and _I_ don’t have to hear about the late nights from your sweetheart.”

You glanced down and flipped your case file closed like you had something to prove.That had stung a bit. “You know I don’t have a…”

“Well,” the detective drummed tattooed knuckles against your desk, “maybe you would.” He leaned in closer, voice lowering to a conspiratory hiss, “if you didn’t spend every waking moment obsessing over your case.”  
  
You stand up, mildly incredulous. “I’m not on traffic duty, Ray. We’re trying to catch a fucking serial killer!” 

It was high profile for a cold case. A string of disappearances that rocked New Orleans and the surrounding rural area in the 1920s and 30s, affecting the rich and famous and the backwater and broke alike. It had baffled the police. All those people vanishing into the Louisiana night without leaving behind a shred of evidence. 

Your job since joining the team had been to listen to recently restored radio archives from back in the day. You were to find and transcribe any pertinent case details (or juicy gossip) about the vics, any leads that might have been missed or overlooked. 

It was different than scouring old case reports or combing dusty newspaper archives. The radio was alive. The hours and hours you spent listening to the voice of the past had made you feel like the cold case was fresh, warm, and bloody, hammering at your door like somebody’s life depended on it. 

The senior detective didn’t understand. He hadn’t listened to the radio. That much was evident in the twitch of amusement in his smile as he pulled your peacoat off the nearby rack and draped it over your shoulders. “I used to be the same way, you know, a little bit _obsessed.”_

You hummed disapprovingly at the word choice, slipping your arms through the light weight sleeves, more fashion than function in the Louisiana heat.

“The killer’s been dead for decades, Shep.” He pressed your shoulders through the fabric. “I’m betting he can wait a couple extra hours.”

You didn’t know how to explain that it couldn’t wait. That when you turned off the radio recordings and tried to step away from your desk, you could still hear them. The loud static, the grand brass and gorgeous vocals, and most of all, the radio hosts, boisterous and joyful and over the top to the point where it felt almost like a clever mockery of their own way of life. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to convince you both, but not before jotting down where you’d left off in your latest transcription, another one of Al’s. 

He chuckled in disbelief as you arranged your work station for the next day, leaving not a pen out of place. _“C’mon,_ Shep. Give it a break. Let me buy you dinner and you can tell me all about the 1920s radio scene.”

You grinned back, joining him at last, letting him swing his arm through yours. “There’s nothing like it,” you begin, “the energy and intellect and charm and, and _joie de vivre_ of these radio hosts…It’s unbelievable. Our final missing person, Alastor, you know, he was one of the big radio personalities of the day, and his voice, oh my god, it’s like he was made for it. I could listen to him talk all day long and never get bored… ” 

“You kind of do.” The senior detective’s eyes rolled, but he was smiling, his elbow digging into your rib. “ _Alastor,_ huh? Sounds like somebody’s got _a crush_ ,” his brassy voice practically sang. 

“Shut the fuck up, Raymond,” you grumbled, but you kept your arm against his and let him take you out for dinner and drinks. You even managed to keep the scratching of radio static out of your ears until dessert. 

_Present_

The van gives another violent lurch and then halts, dumping you onto your back. Horns screech and one of the demons up front curses colorfully. Apparently the traffic laws in Hell aren’t what they should be. You stare at the ceiling. There’s blood up there too. 

You didn’t have ridiculously high expectations for Heaven. You would have been cool with sipping virgin mimosas in a soft chair on a warm beach. But this is so far from that fantasy, you kind of want to scream. You channel your frustration into tugging and clawing at the ropes binding your wrists and ankles. In your rage, your fingers briefly sharpen to points and you manage to break yourself free.

The back doors swing open to reveal Mac, the tiger demon, one arm stretched to clasp the door frame and minimize your exit, the other holding a dingy looking bundle of fabric. “End of the line, angel,” he tells you.

“I’ve heard that before,” you mutter, forcing yourself to sit up and then stand, slightly hunched under the low roof. You toss what’s left of the ropes aside and pick up a pillow to hold in front of your nether regions. For a second, you consider rushing him, but you still feel like shit, you’re naked, unarmed, you don’t know where you are, and, oh yeah, he’s still a fucking _tiger._

Mac raises an eyebrow at your shredded bindings, but looks otherwise unimpressed. “Here.” He sifts through the materials draped over his beefy arm, which you are both relieved and dismayed to realize are actually clothing. You are both well aware that the once white shirt that he tosses you is several sizes too small. The bottom hem looks like it’s been chewed up by something rabid. 

“Welcome to Hell,” you say, turning around, dropping the pillow, and yanking it on. “Here’s a complimentary crop top. Fun fact: the crop top was invented _right here_ to maximize torment for humans and demons alike.”

You have to joke. It stops you from thinking about where they’re taking you, what this guy could do to your half-conscious ass in the back of a van. 

He chuckles insincerely at your gimmicky advertiser’s voice. “You’re feeling better.”

Your only comfort is his claim that he’s transporting you for his job. But it’s not much of one. If you know one thing about demons, it’s that they’re allergic to salt, holy water, and the truth.

You tug the shirt down as far as it can go, a couple inches below your pecs, and then twist your head to glare at him. “Thanks, I guess.”

“They just don’t appreciate it as much as I do when we bring you in naked.” Mac cocks another grin at you, all yellow fangs, black tips. He offers you a pair of gray joggers, but as you reach for them, he yanks them back.

You feel that vibration in your throat again. You’re growling. Your tail gives a harsh swish like it thinks it can be intimidating. You have got to get a handle on this _Zootopia_ shit. 

“Bitch, relax.” Mac’s own striped tail twitches in warning. He shifts the material until he finds the seat of the sweatpants where the word “FRESH” has been printed and claws a hole just below the waistband. “Much better.” 

You stare at him blankly. Your sarcastic nature gets the better of you, “That for my dick, or…?”

He laughs, but it’s not friendly. “You’ve got a tail now, dipshit.”

You can feel your glare intensify. Your head feels heavier.

“Oh shit.” His amusement drops off.

Footsteps scuff the pavement, and Brucie comes up beside him. “You ‘bout done harassing the merchandise, Romeo?” He glances up at you. “Oh shit.”

“What?” you bark.

“Horns. You—you’ve grown horns. Ivory, kind of curved?” Mac motions above his own head, up and forward. “And your eyes just…” He shakes his head to snap out of it. 

_Huh. Interesting._ Transforming with strong emotion is a sign of demonic strength, but no doubt he’s seen worse. You certainly have. Unfortunately, you don’t have time to reflect on the moral ramifications of your being stronger than your average Joe when you’re not supposed to be here in the first place.

“Look, these are your pants.” Mac offers the joggers with one hand and tugs something out the pocket of his jeans with the other. “This’s my number.” He doesn’t release the pants until you take the business card.

Grunting neutrally, you tug on the joggers and stuff the card in your pocket.

“You need some help getting on your feet, or you just looking for a good time, you give me a call.” His feline green eyes glitter gold and he winks. 

_What the fuck? I am literally a German Shepherd._

_Demons are into some kinky shit._

You can’t remember the last time a demon _hit on_ you. Not since the very beginning, when the Radio Demon had...You sharply interrupt that flashback. You need your wits about you right now. You think you might prefer it when the demons want you dead. 

Mac steps back from the doors of the van and you hop out, ignoring the hand he proffers you. You guess shoes and underwear would be a bit much to ask for. Hell probably isn’t well known for its charity drives. You glance around. The street is crowded, still urban, loud. You could make a break for it easily and vanish in the chaos.

“You and your fucking dog fetish…” The alligator demon beside you crosses his arms and shakes his head at Mac, side-eyeing you, grin unpleasant. “Do not _ever_ call him.”

Mac swats his coworker’s arm. “Ah, fuck off, Brucie.”

And with the demons distracted, you run. You try to. You could have. You step on a rock. You have enough pain tolerance built up not to yelp, and your feet seem to be padded at the bottom, but you trip anyway and the thugs notice immediately. They snatch at your arms, suddenly much less amused.

“Look, Shepherd.” Brucie’s grip is tight, the rub of his scales uncomfortable even through the cushion of your fur. “Despite what our delivery system makes it look like, you don’t _have_ to go to orientation, but it’s free and they’ll tell you what the fuck is going on, and feed you, and usually even get you a job, so you might want to stick around and give it a shot. _Alright?_ ”

You don’t know much about Hell. You’ve met a lot of demons, but small talk was not exactly high up on your agenda. Honestly, your assumptions were more biblical and less NYC. But now your brain is flooded with questions. 

_I need to eat? I need a job? I’m supposed to believe Hell has Orientation?_

_What next? Frat ragers? Pep rallies? Classes?_

_Demon 101: Eternal Torment and You_

_Business 210: How to Succeed in Hellfire Without Really Trying_

_Cooking 300: Demonic Cuisine, from Kibble to Cannibalism_

You stare at Brucie waiting for him to crack a smile and reveal that this is one big joke, and then your brain circles back to his main point.

“You’re saying I can just leave. Right now?” You can feel your mouth drop open. “I don’t have to wait to be assigned some kind of…” you hate to say it with the horny tiger demon at your elbow, “punishment?”

Mac smirks. “That could be arranged—”

“All of hell and every asshole in it is your punishment,” Brucie interrupts with rising frustration, giving your arm a shake. “You’re not listening. Yeah, sure, you can leave. If you wanna end up _homeless and broke._ There’re worse things than Mac, here, out there.” 

Brucie smacks the van doors shut with his free arm and turns back to you. “The princess considers her Orientation project a failure because it’s so fucking painful that surveyed newcomers said it made hell _worse._ And, don’t get me wrong, it _is._ But, working this job, I’ve seen a lot of newcomers, and it does, you know, help.”

You pretend to consider this, to even understand what he’s going on about, but not for long. “I’ll take my chances.” You yank hard against their arms. Unfortunately, you were more of a guns and knives demon hunter than a brute strength one.

“Uh-huh.” Mac exaggeratedly pats at your pant pockets, with the hand not securing your bicep. “Seems like you’re unarmed.”

At having your pelvis gripped by a stranger, your throat lets out another soft growl. “No shit.”

His gaze meets yours evenly. “You go through orientation, they’ll give you a weapon.” Your surprise and interest must show because he grins again, all damp fangs. “Ah, yep. Knew you’d like that. It’s no complimentary crop top, but it’ll get the job done.”

You hesitate. Getting a rundown of this literal hell hole might be nice. Getting your hands on something sharp might be better. But ultimately, you know you can’t risk it. They might have some way of identifying you, some laundry list of souls, and if anyone realizes you’re a demon hunter, you’re toast. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You stupid?” Mac is spitting mad. Literally, tiger saliva flecks hit your cheek. “Who the fuck do you think you are? A nobody like you? You won’t last five minutes on your own.”

You might be a little out of it, but you don’t back down from his stare. “That sounds like not your problem.”

You wish you could tell him who you are, watch the fear creep into his eyes. 

Brucie kicks the back of your calf to get you moving. “Well, actually, we get paid by the corpse, so.”

You’ve never missed your handgun so much in your life.

When you refuse to budge, they lift you up and haul you toward a squat, dull looking building. Hung on its automatic doors are three paper signs reading “Welcome To Hell” in drippy red letters and a fourth sign that’s just a frowny face. You frown back. 

The doors spring open with a sound like the slice of a guillotine. 

“Let’s just hope those Hazbin hacks have left,” Mac mutters, shaking his head, the twitch of his tiger ears betraying his agitation. And then they drag you in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: Strong language, minor reference to alcoholism, mention of serial killers/murder, work-a-holics, abduction, non-descriptive nudity, sexual harassment, injuries, minor violence, abduction, brief mentions of kinks, kink-shaming


	3. Hell is a Former Coworker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings in end notes

The sheer _ordinariness_ of it all makes your stomach churn. 

The demons lead you into a lobby with dove gray walls, slate gray flooring, and sharp looking steel and black-cushioned furniture. In front of you sits a pair of fold up tables, covered in deep maroon tablecloths hung with black banners with gold script reading “New Demon Check-In” and “Sucks for you.”

Various demons equipped with lanyards, name badges, and clipboards chat with each other in groups or mill through a distant set of doors that appear to lead to an auditorium.

It’s like taking the first step inside your apartment after you’ve been in a car accident. The mail’s still scattered on the table, the dishes half done in the sink. Everything is painfully as you left it, unchanged, unconcerned, as though you haven’t been through anything at all. 

_You might be dead,_ the lobby seems to say, _but life goes on._

“Hey!”

You don’t have time to ask the thugs pulling at you any questions, before someone charges up to you and your brutish escorts and yells in your faces.

“What do you two _boneheads_ think you’re doing?” 

A demon blocks your path, hands on hips. She’s more humanoid than the guys that abducted you, though her skin is gray and her hair impossibly long and white. Jagged bangs and a startling, glowing pink ‘x’ cover one of her eyes, but the other is narrowed and piercing. Her black lips are drawn back in a snarl. 

“This has to be the most pathetic state I’ve ever seen someone walk through those doors in.” She gestures at you emphatically. 

You think she’s being kind of unfair. You’re walking now, after all, even if it’s with heavy support and great reluctance. 

“Aw, fuck,” Mac mutters into your twitching dog ear, a low growl emanating from somewhere in his striped throat, and then turns a phony smile the new demon’s way. “Ayyyyy, welcome back, Vag-gie.” He stretches an arm wide in greeting, claws not retracted. 

_Must be one of the ‘Hazbin hacks’ he’d been hoping not to run into._

“Pronounce it that way _one_ more time, Mac.” The woman’s words have dropped to a dangerous hiss. In one hand she has a stack of fliers, and in the other materializes a spear, near the same height as she is. “I swear to God.”

You mutter a curse of your own. 

You aren’t planning to stick around hell any longer than you have to, but you have to admit, that spear summoning power is pretty badass. If that’s an orientation class, you’re definitely staying. 

Mac backpedals, but stops as soon as he realizes he has, adjusting his suit jacket, his voice a pseudo soothing taunt, “Easy does it, princess bride.”

This lady doesn’t particularly look like Princess Buttercup, but being a demon hunter, you were not super up on your pop culture references. _Maybe there was a remake?_

Brucie glances up from checking his phone and stills at your side, blinking damp, yellow, slitted eyes, and then erupting into a grin. “The hell? Vaggie!” The crocodile drops your arm entirely and tosses his claw tipped limbs around the slender woman’s shoulders. “Place hasn’t been the same since you left.”

_A former coworker then?_

You frown, wondering why Vaggie’s upset with the men hauling you around if she used to work with them—wondering if they’re really going to fight, and what you’ll do if you get caught in the middle of it. 

“Hey, Brucie.” Vaggie doesn’t look entirely comfortable with the scaly embrace she’s found herself caught in, but something in her face softens. She half smiles and pats his back in return, careful of the spikes, poking through his track hoodie, ridging his spine like something prehistoric. “It’s…been a while.”

“No shit!” Brucie exclaims, one arm thrown wide. They stand close together now, friendly. “What the fuck you doing back here?”

“Charlie drop you?” Mac had been standing off to the side a bit with you, but now he butts in a step to leer at her, fangs glossy. “You drop Charlie?”

“Who’s Charlie?” you ask. Mac nudges your face with his beefy shoulder, which you guess means ‘Shut up.’ 

“Good for you!” Brucie pats the newcomer’s shoulder. “That gal’s batshit, banana nut muffin crazy pants.”

“No!” Vaggie holds up hands to silence them. She sounds pissed again, defensive, “No!” She glares at the crocodile demon and then the tiger. “No one _dropped_ anyone.” Vaggie pointedly shuffles her stack of fliers against her thigh. “I’m here on official hotel business. We’re recruiting.”

You can’t read the fliers too well from where you’re standing—not to mention your vision is still vaguely fogged— _Can dead people get concussions?_ —but you’re pretty sure you glimpse clipart of a rainbow, which you cannot begin to try to fathom, given, well, everything that’s happened to you in the past half hour alone.

Brucie nods, satisfied, and Mac gives zero effort to stowing his sanctimonious smile. He obviously doesn’t have a lot of faith in Charlie—or her hotel. 

“And if you call my girlfriend crazy again,” Vaggie steps forward, the blunt end of her spear hitting the ground with a hard thump, “I will skewer you both.” She pauses to fix them each with another glare, and you notice her iris is light pink, near the same shade as the ‘x’ over her opposite eye, which pulses brighter in her rage. Some of Vaggie’s anger drops off as her former coworkers stare rather harmlessly back. “Just—Don’t tell her I said that.” 

_Charlie—Vaggie’s girlfriend—owns a hotel. Vaggie used to work here at the orientation building, but now works at said hotel. Charlie doesn’t like violent fits of rage. Vaggie does._

You think you’re keeping up okay. 

Both men snort, Brucie just tries a little harder to hide it.

“And here we thought you missed us,” Mac mocks, reaching out a paw to brush Vaggie’s arm, but thinking better of it when her grip on the spear tightens. 

“You could always come back, ya know,” Brucie adds, oblivious to this micro-exchange. “New management ain’t so bad.”

Vaggie frowns, a fang slipping past her lower lip, one shoulder slumping. It’s almost like she doesn’t want to be rude. You didn’t think demons had that particular social inclination. 

“I don’t think…”

Mac obviously feels the tension just as sharply. “Well, we gotta get a move on…” He claps your back brusquely, clearly unaware of how banged up you are below the fur after being tossed around the back of his van like a sock in the spin cycle. 

You gasp, twisting in his vice grip to glower at him, “Jesus, fuck, Mac, watch it.”

He smirks at your outburst. “No need to get feisty, puppy dog.” He flexes his fingers only to tighten his grip further. “You made your choices.”

You wonder if he’s talking about your lack of cooperation or your life of sin.

Vaggie’s mouth dips open, her social graces taking a back seat to her anger, as she once again takes in his steady, claw-tipped hold on you and your overall disarray.

“The new management that lets you forcibly drag people in here with blood matting their fur, barely dressed? _That_ new management?”

It’s ironic to hear the woman talking about ‘barely dressed,’ you think, when she looks like she’s on her way to an R-rated slumber party herself. She’s clad in a short, thin, white, cold shoulder mini dress, with black x’s on the breasts, and accessorized with lace-trimmed knee-high pink and gray striped stockings, and a giant-ass pink hair bow. 

The crop top situation must be worse than you thought. 

“Nobody’s forcing anybody,” Mac says curtly. His green cat’s eyes glint silver as they narrow at her briefly, before turning to you, his expression vaguely less cutting as he surveys the damage with a more discerning eye. 

Wetting his paw with a generous swipe of his long, sandpapery, pink and black tongue, he rubs some of the blood from your chin and neck.

The new attention to the recent wound makes your skin throb, but you don’t flinch. You don’t hiss. Not even when his thumb unpleasantly lingers. But you can picture the exact knife you’d use to take him out at close range: inscribed in gold with Latin and runes, gorgeous craftmanship, just sharpened, polished to a gleam…

Tiger eyes meet yours again. You watch him lick the traces of your blood from his paw. “You know what’s in your best interests.” He releases your arm entirely and you can literally feel the blood coursing more freely. “Right, rover?”

You realize the fact that he’s getting this worked up means this Vaggie woman can probably actually get you out of here. Problem is, with nowhere to go, you also realize that the goons could easily follow you, track you down again. 

And, it’s occurring to you that if the devil really is running this “Orientation” nonsense, and if there really _is_ a Naughty-Nice List of new demons on the block, then maybe there’s a chance that you’re _not on it._

Could be there’s someone here who can confirm you’re in the wrong place. And if that’s true, isn’t there some chance they’ll… send you up to the right one? 

_Psh… That’s naïve._ You know it is. But what other options do you have? 

And if the alternative is staying here for eternity with the off-Broadway cast of _Cats…_

“You… actually want to be here?” Vaggie asks kindly, hands folding, brows arching, expression almost… _hopeful?_

 _Maybe Vaggie is like Passion-Project-Princess and actually_ believes _in this orientation shit._

“Yeah,” you deadpan, arms crossing, too tired to figure out how to make yourself sound convincing. “Heard there’d be snacks.”

Brucie snickers. 

Vaggie groans at Mac’s innocent, ‘see, what’d I tell you?’ furry white eyebrow bounce.

“You can leave right now if you want to. This is supposed to be voluntary.” Vaggie glares at your goons. “And _helpful.”_

You don’t answer right away, but you don’t scamper off either. She’s confusing you with her concern. 

_Demons don’t care about anyone but themselves._

_Why does she?_

But the longer Vaggie looks at you, the more worried she seems. “You’re all banged up from the fall. You could use some medicine. And some shoes.” She whirls on her former coworkers. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves, dragging a new demon here looking like this. What kind of impression does that give?”

“What are you, a fairy godmother?” Mac scowls. “We have fuck-all funding since Her Highness left and Pops took over. Wanna magic us up a ball gown and carriage too? Hell…” 

The way Mac wraps his hand around the base of your tail and runs the pad of his paw up, fingers ruffling every inch of fur, makes you want to sink your teeth into his arm, brawny even through his cheap suit jacket, but you settle for smacking him away, which does little to deter his smile. 

“ _I’d_ like to see this piece of tail dressed in all sorts of things. So, if you can make that happen…” 

The three of you look at Vaggie expectantly.

She sputters, visible eye large, lashes heavy and dark, like moth fur, “I mean, I don’t have, not right…”

You shake your head, annoyed you let yourself feel hopeful for a moment. “I’ll manage,” you grit out wearily, turning away from maybe the first demon you’ve ever met to near convince you they give a damn.

You should have known better. _A demon’s a demon._

“Wait,” Vaggie steps forward, calmer, more earnest, one hand settling her bangs and the other reaching out with a flyer. “Come to our hotel. We can get you whatever you need. And we’d love to have you.”

The goons cackle at her offer. They obviously know something you don’t. 

_Hotel, hotel, hotel..._

Considering her strange, revealing attire, and her sorrowful smile as she passes you the paper, a new, unpleasant idea begins to take form. You begin to wonder if maybe this _hotel_ is more of a _brothel_.

Why else would they be recruiting unsuspecting, broke newcomers like you? 

_More importantly, are German Shepherds the sluts of the underworld?_

Mind churning, you figure it’s best not to say anything at all. Nodding, you accept the advert and start to limp away, the goons on either side of you. You fold up the flier without reading it and stuff it deep in the pocket of your joggers.

“Just think about it…!” she calls after you, dismay in her voice as she watches you dismiss the paper so quickly. 

“That’s right. Don’t waste your time,” Mac advises, watching you approvingly, as he falls into step beside you, nodding to direct you toward a maroon-clothed check-in table. “A tiger can’t change its stripes. Trust me; I would know.”

He may not be touching you, but the tiger demon’s still walking uncomfortably close to your side. You reach up and run the back of your hand down the fluffy white mane of his cheek, your seductive tone hard-edged, “Because I’d be much better off in _your_ hands, is that what you’re trying to say, Mac?”

He catches your wrist in his paw, grip bruising, and jerks your hand back down. _Obviously not as big a fan of taking snark as giving it._ “Here’s hoping we’ll find out, gorgeous.”

“I wish I still had ears,” Brucie interjects loudly, staring pointedly at his phone, “because I would like to claw them off.” 

You have reached the check-in table now, next in line behind a demon built vaguely like a snowman and trailing puffs of white crystal. _Wouldn’t life have been nice if you could take every demon out with a hand held blow dryer?_

Brucie elbows your ribs. “What’d I tell you about this joker, G. Shepherd?”

“Don’t call him,” you parrot. You don’t need to be told twice. You wonder how much longer these guys are gonna stick around—if this tiger demon’s interest is going to develop into an actual problem. On one hand, you’re in public, but on the other, this is Hell, and there don’t seem to be a lot of PDA restrictions. 

Brucie nods, still tapping at his cell. “Don’t fucking call him.” 

Mac rolls his eyes and reaches past you to bop the crocodile demon in the bicep. “You think you’re in Hell for jacking people’s shit, but actually it’s because you’re such a shitty wingman. You know that, Brucie?”

Brucie tucks his phone away and shakes his head, and you have to swerve a bit to avoid his long snout. “You’re married, asshole.”

Mac snorts, glancing down at one of many rings on his paw. “Barely…”

“To my _cousin.”_

Phlegmy throat clearing draws all of your attention to the check-in desk. The snow-demon has scooted off leaving a damp trail, a frosty peppermint breeze, and an empty space in front of you. 

“Next!” cheers a bright-eyed looking young woman in a black cardigan with enormous dragon wings sprouting from her back and smoke curling from her nostrils. “Step right on up, and tell me your name!”

For a minute all you can hear is the music floating from the speaker of her laptop. 

_Babe._

_There’s something wretched about this._

_Something so precious about this._

_Oh, what a sin._

Radio static. 

  
  
  


_Years Ago_

The bar speakers were, and you suspected always had been, absolute shit. Loud static deafened your ears between karaoke sets, but you had had too many cranberry and vodka sodas to notice or care much. 

The senior detective had made good on his promise of free drinks if you agreed to go to the precinct’s annual Christmas party, which had resulted in you leaning your back into his chest more than you were supposed to be, using the crowded booth as a flimsy excuse to yourself. 

His tattooed hand kept wandering down to rest on your knee, and your own papercut one kept wandering up to toy with the pom pom of his Santa hat, dangling down his shoulder. It was a credit to the sheer volume of sour-smelling eggnog the man had consumed that he was allowing any of this in front of half your office staff—albeit an impressively intoxicated half. 

The buzzing of the speakers faded as one of the precinct’s administrative assistants stepped back up to the sputtering microphone. 

“Next on the stage we have our very own Detective Shepherd!”  
  
It took you a minute to process the words. The senior detective’s hand squeezed your waist. “That’s us, darlin’.” 

“No, fucking way…” you stuttered, but he was already scooting out of your booth, stepping up the single step to the platform acting as a stage.

You stood and glared at him as he picked up a guitar someone had left propped against an amp and motioned you forward with a pick from God knew where. 

“Come on up here, Detective!” the MC exclaimed, which prompted a frankly ridiculous roar of applause and laughter from your colleagues. 

You stared at the lyrics on the laptop on the small table in front of you, and then out at the jubilant crowd, and, finally, to the detective in the Santa hat beside you. He fixed you with an overconfident smile and started thrumming out notes.

You groaned. “Is this _Kanye?_ ” 

“Actually, this is the _Pentatonix_ version.”

You snorted and punched his arm. 

His smile brightened, and he played the rest of the intro, before leading you in, _“Memories made in the coldest winter…”_

You took up the lyrics, the senior detective echoing you in the background:

_On lonely nights, I start to fade_

_Her love’s a thousand miles away_

_Memories made in the coldest winter_

_Goodbye, my friend. Will I ever love again?_

By the time your song was spent, the room had grown a thousand times quieter. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears and practically taste the alcohol and eggnog sticking to the bottom of your shoes. After standing frozen for a moment, you shakily set the mic back on the stand. The speaker blared static again.  
  
“Damn,” someone called from the back, as you stepped off stage, and then every cop in the place was clapping. People were slapping you on the back, whistling, hooting. You wanted to run for it, but instead you grinned, gave a cheeky little bow, said thank you, and finally, turned back to the stage where you had left the senior detective. You wanted to wrap your arm around him, tell him he’d played incredibly, but he had disappeared, his guitar propped back up against the speaker. 

So, you did run, pushing through the thick, jovial crowd and out a flapping side door. The night air was frigid and you certainly weren’t dressed for it. You stood for a moment, deaf to the confused calls trailing behind you. 

“Ray?” you yelled, blinking in the blinding overhead floodlight. Light fluffy bits of snow floated down and into your hair. 

_They had said it might, but they always do,_ and you knew better than to believe it—

“Ray, where are you?” 

You turned toward a flicker of shadow in your peripheral. A man in a Santa hat leaned against a dumpster, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Shep, that you?” He stepped forward into the light, his cheeks hollow as he raised a flame to the cigarette, the flowers inked beside his mouth stretching strangely. 

“Hey…” you mumbled. “I just…” You hugged your arms to your chest against the chill, and shuffled your feet. “You kind of… ran off.” 

“Yeah.” He inhaled, exhaled, snowflakes freckling his nose and cheekbones. “Yeah, I know.” 

You shut the door more firmly behind you, and walked over to lean onto the dumpster beside him. Recrossing your arms, as he settled back beside you, you stared off to where he was staring, down the alleyway and up at the stars piercing through the fog dripping silver flakes of snow. 

“How come?” you breathed.

“’m drunk, Shep.” He chuckled, low, shook his head. “And I didn’t know you could sing like that… I mean, damn. So fucking beautiful. I just wanted to, like…” He paused, inhaled, exhaled, more smoke. His thumb rose to rub below his eye. 

“What?” you whispered, elbowing his arm, smirking a bit. “Kiss me?”

“Cry.” 

You met his eyes for a long moment; they were painfully sincere. 

“Nobody needed to see that.” He chuckled. It was sad, a little slurred. “ _You_ didn’ need to see that.” 

You pressed your fingers against the flowers lining his jaw and then pressed your lips to his cheekbone where the snowflakes had melted. 

“You _are_ drunk,” you said, and he laughed, the cigarette dropping from his lips into the snow. The pair of you watched the red embers fizzle out and sift into smoke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: Strong language, abduction, sexual harassment, threats, minor violence, injuries, anger management issues, brief mentions of prostitution/brothels, attempting to cheat on a spouse, getting drunk at an office party, smoking 
> 
> 1\. For the record, I think Vaggie's outfit is adorable, it just also reminds me of PJs.  
> 2\. I promised spontaneous musical numbers! Music from Hozier's "From Eden" and Pentatonix/Kanye's "Coldest Winter"  
> 3\. Feel free to let me know what you think! Thank you for reading and leaving kudos <3


	4. Hell is the Universe Mocking You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings in end notes

You wonder how long you’ve been gone. You wonder if anyone knows you’re dead yet.

You figure the Sphinx will be the first. In your line of work, the Sphinx is the first to know just about everything—though no one knows much of anything about her. 

When you stopped responding to her texts and calls, you wonder if she sent someone looking for you, if someone else finished off the monster that finished you. 

You hope she decided _not_ to follow up and reasoned that you had, for whatever reason, chosen to up and leave the demon hunting business behind for good. You hope she thinks you retired to the suburbs, take yoga classes, coach a little league team...

You hope she knows who to tell that you’re dead. The other hunters that you teamed up with, drinking buddies, informants, people you called friends. You had cared about them, you think, though at the end of the day none of you really knew the first thing about each other. How could they, when you and they never spoke about who you used to be, what you came from, why you left? 

Then there was always the knowledge that your friends might blow you to bits if it meant hitting the demon, too. That had always put a bit of a damper on your heart to hearts. 

You wonder if the Sphinx mourned you. Or at least the loss of your talents. You know she counted on you to do the stuff the other hunters said was too crazy. She’ll have to find someone else now. 

She found you when you were first starting out. She’s a hacker. That much everyone knows, and your internet search history when you first started hunting demons set off, like, a zillion red flags. The ones that say: This person has completely lost their shit. She _texted_ you, asked you to cease and desist before you got yourself dead. 

To make a long story short, you refused. When she learned of your previous profession—hacked your file, you suppose—and she realized that you were not only stupidly determined but stupidly capable, you teamed up. 

From what you gleaned over the years, the Sphinx’s main goal was to track down every book, e-book, and crusty stack of papers—the older the better—ever written about summoning the dead, and either add them to her personal collection or burn them to a crisp. 

On her end, this involved a lot of hacking of archives, Amazon accounts, and library resources to learn of locations of and patrons holding onto these texts. On your end, it involved some actions of questionable legality. Sometimes, it was as simple as strolling into an unlocked library and tucking the thing in your backpack. But more often than not, it involved tracking the text down, breaking and entering, stealing and running for your life. 

And then if you were unlucky, and you usually were, you would step into a summoning ritual in progress and have to take out a demon of unknown power and strength, or at the very least, you had to fist-fight someone who thought ‘summon the dead’ was a fun little addition to their to-do list. 

You had tracked down and fought other demons too, of course, the ones who summoned _themselves_ and started wreaking havoc. But working with the Sphinx gave you an edge. You made a good team, the Sphinx giving you paying jobs from time to time and you killing demons, saving lives, the whole nine yards. 

You must have meant _something_ to her. She had bailed you out of jail on more than one occasion and tackled dozens of your medical bills. You don’t know how she could afford it.

You only wish you could have met her. She usually wired money or sent someone else to get you out of a jam, and when she came herself, she was always gone before you got out of holding or surgery or the campus security office.

There were days when you fancied she was a powerful tech-company mogul flying in on a private jet and still others you were convinced that she was a genius teenager running an entire cross-country network of demon hunters out of her garage after robotics club. 

One of the first missions she sent you on was to some backwater college town on October 31. A local sorority chapter had decided to hold a good-old fashioned demon summoning for their Halloween mixer. You still remember ducking through fake cobwebs on your way in and downing some lime green cocktail that tasted like apple-scented hand sanitizer. 

By the time you arrived, the sorority’s social chair had already been possessed. She looked not unlike the woman standing in front of you now, behind the check-in counter, her cute black sweater accented by curling black horns peeking through a cute blonde bob, and accessorized with leathery bat’s wings. Except the _original_ sorority sister had had some Chad by the throat in her talons. 

God, can Greek kids scream. 

It had been a long night. You try to shove it all out of your head as you step forward now. 

“Hell-o, _hell-o_ ,” sings the woman in front of you. Her lanyard reads “Vixen” in bubble letters. Aside from her dragon’s wings she looks every inch a college resident assistant, right down to her overeager, razor-toothed smile—especially when she claps her hands together, and continues, “and welcome to—” 

Your head throbs as you try to focus, her image blurring with your memories as your muscles and skin object to every movement. You wish you could take something to numb the pain.

“To Hell,” you finish for her, bite in your words, swishing your hand, “yeah, no, I get it, I do. Very cute.”

Vixen frowns at your interruption, her nostrils flaring, releasing more smoke, but when you do not apologize, she continues, “Your name, please, smartass?”

This is it. You can lie now and see how far it will get you, lay low and protect your now helpless self from being battered bloody by whatever enemies you have down here for as long as you can. Or you can risk it all to try to fight your way up to paradise: sunny beaches, fluffy clouds, sweet drinks, choirs of harps, swimming with otters, whatever it is they do up there.

“Shepherd,” you say.

You really like the idea of paradise. 

“The lady asked for your name,” Mac corrects, paw on your shoulder blade in case your evasive answer means you’re thinking of making another run for it, “not your pedigree.” 

You’re not sure how he manages to make _pedigree_ sound dirty.

You shut your eyes briefly against his condescending smile and ungodly number of teeth. “That _is_ my name.” You turn back to Vixen and continue, hoping she might start tapping at her keyboard and brush this aside, “That’s S-H-E-P-H—” 

“You’re joking,” Brucie interrupts with a sharp laugh, fixing his unnerving, slitted golden eyes on yours. He cackles harder when your expression doesn’t change, inhaling hugely when you wince and then belly laughing, his enormous jaws smacking together and his eyes shutting tight. “Oh my god, you’re not joking?”

Mac chuckles in disbelief, the white markings above his eyes rising high. “Your name was _Shepherd_ and you turned into a…” He draws a paw up and down, indicating all of you. A friendly reminder that he’s _seen_ all of you.

“German Shepherd,” you supply with a sigh, too in pain to be amused. “Apparently.”

Mac cracks up, and Brucie laughs all the harder.  
  
“That’s…” Brucie staggers, claws grabbing onto the edge of the check-in table, wheezing. “That’s the most ridiculous fuckin’ thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard...” He slaps the counter with one hand, pats your arm with the other, wheezing some more, trying to calm himself. 

Mac regains his composure just long enough to grin at you. “How’s it feel to know the _universe_ is fuckin’ mocking you?” he manages, and at the glare you offer in return, breaks down again.

“Like Hell,” you reply. 

“At least you’re not a sheep, I guess,” the dragon demon behind the counter offers, shrugging sympathetically. The sympathy tastes wrong, a metallic zing like fake sugar. Or maybe you’re just swallowing blood. 

You rub your forehead, though your joints complain at the movement and the feeling of your fur is so disconcerting, you immediately drop your hand. “Can we move this along?”  
  
Vixen offers you that fake, shark-sharp smile again, nodding at your thugs. “Sure. Let me just log your escorts. Bruce and Mac, right?”

The thugs manage to stop laughing, but are still grinning wryly.  
  
“Actually,” Brucie jerks his scaly thumb at Mac, “he was thinking of changing it to Tiger McKittyCat.” He can’t finish his joke without snorting. “Whaddya think?”

Mac casually shoves Brucie to the side and gives the check-in demon a nod. “Yeah, yeah, that’s us.”

Unfazed by their antics, Vixen taps away at her keyboard. She has long, sparkly manicured nails and that strikes you as funny. Somewhere, someone’s giving mani-pedis in Hell. “Alright! I’ve got you down, boys. You’re free to head off and find your next piece of fresh meat.” 

You grimace, but no one’s paying you any attention. Brucie and Mac are looking at each other. 

“Alright, alright, will do!” Brucie nods, giving the check-in dragon a wave and smacking you on the back. “Later, Vix. Good luck, _Shepherd.”_

As Brucie starts to walk away, Mac echoes his wave.

“Luck with this one, Vix.” Gripping your arm before you can yank away, Mac leans in and brushes his lips against your cheek. His breath is hot. You can feel his throat vibrating, as he murmurs, “See you later, angel face.” 

You twist hard, though he holds fast, and your face doesn’t contort like it used to, but it still does, your gums curling back to reveal fangs, and by the way he glances up, he must see a glimmer of your reported, reappearing pearly-white horns.

“Your funeral, _angel face_ ,” you reply through gritted teeth, and this time you meet his eyes and see a flash of silver.  
  
Mac looks genuinely shaken, if only for an instant. But to a seven-foot tiger demon, you don’t look like much. Mac recovers himself easily, laughing and squeezing your arm one last time with a suggestive growl. “Careful, bitch.”

You wince as he releases you and steps off to join his partner. 

You wait until they’ve left the building—maneuvering past Vaggie, now tempting someone else with her flyers—before you turn back around. 

“Well,” Vixen leans back to cross her arms and observe you, as you let yourself breathe for a beat, “ _someone_ got the sexy tiger demon all riled up. He’s usually a little more...discreet.”

“He got _himself_ riled up.” You can hear an increasingly familiar growl to your voice. Her eyes get wider, but both of you decide to let it pass. You rest your arms against the table and lean forward, businesslike, ignoring the throbbing bruises and claw pricks. “I’d like to file a complaint with whoever’s in charge here.”

Vixen sighs and looks largely unsurprised. “Against Mac, Bruce, or both?” 

Complaining about them hadn’t even occurred to you. 

“I’m in Hell.” You can feel your ears twitch in irritation. “I think I’ve got bigger problems.”

One of her brows lifts. “Good. Because all written complaints are filed chronologically in the garbage bin,” she lifts a basket from the ground beside her into view and sets it back down, “and dismissed after a week.” 

“That’s…” You shake your head, trying to stop your ears from flattening in anger, trying to keep your voice level, quiet, “absolute bullshit.” 

For a second you want to make a big deal out of that instead, because no one should be treated like you just were. You have to remind yourself that everyone else is here because they were horrible people. Of course Hell’s not all rainbows and cupcakes, and there’s nothing you can do to fix _that._ You take another breath. 

“But it’s not what I’m talking about. Look,” you toss up an open palm, “somebody screwed up. I’m not supposed to be here.” 

You take another glance around. You spot demons piling high paper plates at a buffet, demons sitting on the floor, chatting. You spot your own tail, swishing agitatedly behind you. Your fur prickles, it’s probably standing on edge. 

She smiles, too wide, knowing, patronizing. “Nobody _wants_ to be at Orientation, but I can assure you—”

“No. In Hell. I’m not supposed to be in Hell,” you interrupt, a little exasperated at this point. 

“Oh!” She cocks her head, assessing you, mocking smile growing, “Oh, sweetie. Everyone feels that way at first!”

_Of fucking course they do._

In hindsight, you probably should have expected this. _No one thinks they deserve to be in_ Hell. _The guiltiest people don’t think they’ve done anything wrong and they certainly don’t repent. What’s that quote? ‘Every villain is a hero in his own mind.’ Who said that? That guy who played Loki?_

Your grip on the edge of the table gets a little harder, so you focus on softening that and then your breathing. 

“I take it you haven’t pulled up my record yet, then, huh?”

She frowns, taken aback, and pulls forward a black laptop with a red insignia of an apple with a snake curled around it. _Nobody’s big on subtlety here, it seems._ She starts scrolling and her manicure clatters against the keys.

“Shepherd, right? I’m… actually,” her pale blonde brows furrow, and she swipes back up to the top and starts to scan through again, “I’m not seeing it here…” 

You stop breathing. You can feel your lip start to twitch up. “Like I said…”

“Wait.” The smoke curling from her nostrils pauses and her wings give a nervous flutter. “You’re not… _Sam_ Shepherd, are you?”

_Well, fuck._

“Why?” You tilt your head in a subtle attempt to see the screen but she tilts it away. “What’s it say?”

“Sam Shepherd,” she reads, with some hesitation, “New Orleans, also known as The Good Shepherd, occupation—” Her wings go absolutely still behind her. “Oh shit.” She glances from the words to your face and back again. Unconsciously, she takes a step backward and stumbles over her folding chair, her wings unfurling to catch her fall. They’re black, almost translucent, with glossy veins of purple, pink, and green. It’s almost beautiful. “What are you doing here?”

Her wings snap shut. You’re well trained in keeping your expression blank, though your ears are putting a damper on that. Still your stare seems to unsettle her. 

“ _Occupation_ …?” you echo, interested, but cautious. 

She bares her sharp teeth at you and pushes the laptop back, a little disgusted with it. “You know what it fucking says. You’re… you’re not supposed to be down here.” She laughs, sharp and more than a little bit manic, and grins again. “If the overlords get their hands on you, do you know what they’re going to _do_ to you?”

You lean forward. You’ve had enough of being underestimated today. You’ve been splattered in every color demon blood there is. The music on Vixen’s laptop’s speaker starts to sputter and her eyes flit from it to yours, and then up. 

“Maybe you should be more concerned with what _I’ll_ do to _them_ ,” you reply. 

You can feel it again, a weight, heavier this time. The music sputters back to life: 

_Idealism sits in prison, Chivalry fell on its sword._

_Innocence died screaming. Honey, ask me, I should know..._

Your vision starts to blur.

Vixen backs further up, a flicker of flame leaving her mouth on exhale, her glittery nails forming full on talons. “Whoa, okay, okay, Bambi! Relax!” 

_Bambi?_

_Not horns then…? Antlers?_

You shudder. It doesn’t take a whole lot of thinking to dredge up the memory of another demon with antlers. 

“Look,” Vixen raises and waves her hands in surrender, her slit pupils wider and more desperate, her jaw slack and her voice pleading, “I make minimum wage! I don’t want any trouble! Please.”

She looks so harmless. A college student. You wonder what she did to end up in a place like this. Maybe she killed her roommate. 

You exhale, and you must return to your default demon look, because some of the tension in her shoulders releases. “I don’t want any trouble either. All I want is to talk to whoever’s in charge and get out of here.” 

She nods three times, hand already wrapping around her cell. 

“I’ll call the orientation leader right away!” She forces customer service back into her voice. “We’ll see what she can do about getting you…” her eyes dart between you and the screen, and then back again, smile watery, as her voice falters, “wherever you’re supposed to be.” 

“Hang on.” You reach over and set your hand on her arm. “If anyone else finds out who I am, that I’m _here…_ ” 

“You think you’re special?” She snorts, though her knuckles are white around her phone. “As if you’re the first person to kill demons in Hell. Please.” She literally tosses her hair, exhales a quick puff of smoke. “Anyone who’s anyone down here has killed a fuck-ton of demons. Every single overlord. You might be dangerous, but you’re not special.”

You feel a little bit like you’ve been thrown across the back of a van again. She’s obviously twitchy, but she’s making some decent points. (Assuming demons _can_ die in Hell, which you hadn’t previously considered, because then what happens? Do they go to Double Hell? They better cover this shit in Orientation.) It would make sense that it’s a demon eat demon world out there. 

Still, you can’t be too careful.

You lean forward again, squeezing the dragon demon’s arm, hating that it feels like what Mac did to you, but knowing you don’t have much of a choice. “... You tell anyone I’m here,” you hiss, and frankly, bless the check-in demon at the next table over who isn’t paying any attention to any of this, “and I’ll find you.” 

“I won’t!” Vixen squeals, and at your glare, her voice hushes, “I won’t, I swear to Satan.”

You exhale. “Fine. Call your manager.”

Vixen dials, fumbles, dials again. There’s a stack of name tags and lanyards in front of you and you pick up an off-brand Sharpie and start to write your name. The lanyards are black with gold font that reads “Welcome to Hell, Loser” in a variety of languages. 

You slip your name tag into a plastic sleeve. You can’t remember the last time anyone’s called you “SAM” but Shepherd is the name of a demon hunter and if you’re trying to lay low…

“Madi,” the check-in demon addresses the phone with a new, quiet urgency. “We have a problem. I’ve got someone here and… I think they’re supposed to be in heaven.”

She listens for a moment and then sets down her phone, hard. 

“I’ll, um… print your orientation packet.” 

She gets to it and you’re left watching, wondering how this is going to pan out for you. You listen to the song on the radio, repeating for the third time. 

_Babe…_

_There's something tragic about you_

You can hear the whir of the printer coughing up papers. You wonder if someone’s coming to kill you. You wonder if they even _have_ a way to get you to Paradise. Phones seem to be big here. Maybe they can just text St. Peter. 

_Something so magic about you_

_Don’t you agree?_

“Okay, I’ll just staple this together, and my boss will be down any minute to collect you.”

“Before you do that, I’m sorry, but would you turn off this fucking music?” 

“Music?” Vixen glances around, and eventually to her laptop, moving her head closer. “What music?”

“I…”

_Babe…_

You shake your head, remembering your earlier fears of concussion. “Never mind.”

_There's something lonesome about you._

“I must have imagined it.”

_Something so wholesome about you._

“I’m not quite myself right now.”

_Get closer to me._

Radio static. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: Strong language, grief, injuries, non-graphic violence, drinking, brief reference to substance abuse, abduction, sexual harassment and minor victim shaming, threats, institutionalized abuse enabling, references to mass demon killing
> 
> Lyrics from Hozier’s “From Eden”


	5. Hell, Sponsored By Facebook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings in end notes

“Here.” 

The demon behind the check-in table straightens your stack of orientation papers, staples the corner, and passes them across the counter. You try to ignore the tremor in her hand, which she makes a little easier by spearing you with a sharp glare and tossing her hair to the side, indicating you ought to get out of the way. 

You step off to the side of the check-in table, and a man with the horns, snout, and nose ring of a minotaur steps up to take your place. He begins speaking to her in rapid-fire Spanish, but in your head, you understand what he’s saying nonetheless. You try not to think about this, because you are pretty sure your brain will explode. 

You skim the papers in your hand. You can’t tell if the first page is a letter of introduction or a cruel joke: 

_Hey, you._

_So, look. I’ve never died before, personally, but I’m sure it kind of sucks. Especially when you wake up and realize that you took the elevator downstairs. Like, that must really, really suck. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do for you, but there really isn’t. But… :) lucky for you, Hell isn’t really_ so _bad!! Honestly, I’ve heard it’s comparable to Las Vegas or Detroit!_

_Yeah, I know, you think I’m only saying this because I’m a princess, and I grew up in a castle, and I’ve never wanted for anything in my entire life. And you’re probably saying to yourself, “What the fuck does she know?” But that’s not true. Really. I pinky promise._

_People here can be super great once you get to know them! You just have to remember that there’s more to every murderous lunatic than meets the eye! On the inside, they might be a really great person! And if you’re sad or homesick, remember, with this climate, Hell has hella good ice cream, and ice cream makes everything better!_

_Anyway, to make your transition into your new afterlife a teensy bit easier, I’ve put together these awesome, fantastic, super great orientation sessions! Check out the schedule listed below! Be sure to attend them all so you can be the most prepared for your new life in my hometown!_

_Good luck, neighbor! Hugs!_

_Charlotte Magne, Princess of Hell <3 <3 :) _

_Hail Satan <3 _

You shake your head. You’re not sure how else to react to this note from _the princess of Hell._ Luckily you have experience pushing insane things out of your skull. As promised, a time table is listed below the letter. You decide to flip through the other pages to see if they’re just as ridiculous. 

The second page seems more promising. It offers more in-depth—though at a glance baffling—descriptions of the orientation sessions: General, Health and Wellness, General, Q & A, Job Fair… and the list goes on. You’ll have to read more closely later. 

The third page reads “Personalized Afterlife Connections, Sponsored By: Facebook” across the top and is further divided into the subsections “Family,” “Friends,” “Colleagues,” “Lovers,” “Enemies,” and “Mortal Enemies.” You skim the first column and recognize the names of some of your deceased relatives, accompanied just to their right by their “Status.” Running your eyes down the list, status options seem to include “Hell,” “Heaven,” “Purged,” or “Killed.” There is no explanation for the last two terms. You frown, and you can feel one of your ears twitching. You don’t like the sound of ‘Purged’ and ‘Killed’ seems concerningly redundant. 

Beside the status of those marked “Hell” are various columns for contact information including “Home Address,” “Hell Phone Number,” and “Current Employer.” On the far right, almost everyone has a checkmark in the box labelled ‘FB user.’ Different people have different contact info and some have none at all. As invaluable as this information seems, you can’t bring yourself to look too hard at the list of names right now. 

You can’t afford to have your emotional state any more compromised than it already is. Not here. Not right now. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you would recognize the people on it if you saw their demon forms. _Would they recognize me? Even if they did, would they forgive me—the ones that mattered—for leaving and never looking back?_

You start to flip to the next page, which appears to be some sort of map, but are interrupted by a shrill voice yelling, “Whaddaya want, Vixie?”

You look up in time to see a demon materialize behind the check-in table in a cloud of candy pink fog. You can hear the click of her heels as she stalks toward Vixen, who coughs as the fumes start to dissipate. The newcomer is dressed in a gray blazer and matching pencil skirt and has a black silk scarf knotted around her throat, and a pair of reflective aviators balanced on her nose. Most importantly, a variety of species of live snakes grow from every inch of her scalp, writhing and hissing as if they might strike anyone who steps too close.

You take an involuntary step back. Most of the demons you’ve seen so far wouldn’t have been a threat to you back in your demon slaying prime (a.k.a. the day before yesterday, when you had your weapons handy), but the newcomer is setting off a shrill alarm in your achy head. You didn’t spend as much time studying demons as chasing them down, but you think you knew the name of this mythological creature at some point. 

Vixen stumbles a step backwards, her leathery wings fluttering, shimmering, and upsetting a to-go cup on the table. Her hand snakes out to catch the coffee, and then she frowns up at her boss. “Madi. Thank Luce, I—”  
  
Madi silences her with a wave of her hand, and steps up to the counter and the man with the bull features who is diligently filling out his name tag with bold letters reading “FUCK OFF,” which you are now a little upset that you hadn’t thought to do. 

“So, you’re the Good Shepherd, huh?” The newcomer’s thumb and forefinger grip the edge of her shades, as she speaks to the minotaur demon. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take these off right now.” 

_Gorgon._ The name pierces the fog in your brain with startling immediacy. _Snakes for hair. A gaze that turns people to stone. Kill by beheading._ Gorgon. 

The man’s brows rise, confused. He replies in English, as she had, faintly accented, “I mean, go for it, freaky snake lady. We’re indoors.” 

You laugh and then clamp a hand over your mouth. The quick movement strains something in the back of your neck, but at least the demons don’t seem to notice you.

“This is not the Good Shepherd,” the gorgon states flatly, turning her gaze back toward Vixen.

“Er. No.” Vixen jerks a clawed thumb your direction. “That one.” 

You had begun slowly slinking toward the exit after the gorgon’s ominous sunglasses remark, but you freeze, lifting your hands, paperwork flopping.

“ _I_ think the sunglasses look great on you,” you find yourself countering, gesturing to the bull-headed man. “That guy’s clearly a dick.”

The gorgon stares at you for a long moment, and then a smirk tugs at her lip. She laughs outright and motions you toward her. “Alright, demon hunter. Let’s walk and talk.”

You consider her for a moment in return. Her hands have fallen away from her sunglasses, and her snakes are settling down. Apparently, you don’t look like as much of a threat as the seven-foot minotaur demon. _Her mistake._

When you reach her side, Madi sets off at a brisk pace in the direction of a waiting area with couches, tables, and a buffet, or perhaps in the direction of the hall beyond it. 

You spare one last glance backward. Vixen’s leaning away from the check-in table with her cell to her ear, her wings spread as if to shield her from on-lookers. She glances over her shoulder toward you, and meeting your eye, her gaze flits quickly away. Your stomach fills with ice. 

Turning your head back around, you take a breath and a few more steps. You decide you’re probably being paranoid. The check-in demon had seemed scared of you, and you’d threatened her. Gossiping about you over the phone seemed like a pretty stupid response.

The Gorgon—Madi—is introducing herself, calling herself Director of Something Important Sounding and Overseer of the Orientation Torture Project and blah, blah, blah. 

“That short for ‘Medusa?’” you interrupt, turning to her, careful to glance at her mouth, rather than her sunglasses, just in case. She’s wearing black lipstick, which accents her olive complexion, and she smells a bit like a new car.

Her lips curve up in a grin, but she doesn’t say anything as she leads you the last few steps toward the black-clothed buffet table. The arrangement features an untouched looking veggie tray, a fruit tray scattered with large flies, a mostly empty cheese tray, and another couple trays of unrecognizable substances in pink, black, and red, that look grotesquely gut-like in nature. 

“Would you like a refreshment, Good Shepherd?” 

You try to hide your grimace from her. “I could use a coffee.” You lift a palm, shrug a shoulder, though the movement stings. “Maybe something stiffer.”

Madi definitely catches your wince but opts not to comment on how pummeled you apparently look, before gesturing down the buffet line. Following the trays of food, there’s an arrangement of cans—mainly Pepsi products—beside a glass dispenser of a dark, thick red liquid on ice, and finally a silver coffee dispenser. You read the label as you step up to it. _Decaf._

“This really is Hell,” you mutter, sticking your black styrofoam cup beneath the spigot and pulling the handle. Only a trickle comes out, and then nothing. You touch the side of the machine and it’s cold. Beside you, Madi’s filling her cup with the deep red, syrupy substance. You reconsider. 

“Is that blood?” you ask flatly.

“Pomegranate juice.” She smirks and wordlessly toasts you with her cup. One of her snakes slithers up to sink its fangs into the edge, leaving white teeth prints indented in the dark foam. 

You remember another Greek myth, which warns against consuming the fruits of hell if you ever want to leave again, and pitch your cup and its trickle of decaf into an over-packed trash can at the edge of the table. The myth might just be a myth, and it might not apply to shitty coffee, but there wasn’t any god damn creamer anyway. 

“So…” you begin, sliding your hands into the deep pockets of your joggers, and becoming distracted as your fingers brush against papers you had hastily pushed inside. You consider pitching them with your cup, but the bin is full enough as it is, and you are a smidge curious what Mac has on his business card and what exactly is written on the maybe-a-brothel flyer. You were a detective once after all. 

“Let’s talk in my office,” Madi suggests, and before you can object, she begins striding purposefully past the other exhausted looking newcomers. Demons of all shapes and sizes have piled themselves onto coaches and stiff, fraying armchairs, some hitting it off, others brooding alone, a few dutifully picking at unidentifiable foods on black paper plates. Like you, they all seem to have been dressed from the contents of an old lost-and-found, and looking more carefully, you spot many nursing minor cuts, bruises, and limps. 

Still, the sheer number of them sets your fur on edge. The most demons you’ve fought at a time on your own was _three._ You’d taken on a mass summoning of six, with a half dozen hunters once, but that had been a complete shit show... 

Coming up on your left, a skinny, tall, white, fluffy looking thing with two sets of arms and thigh-high, lace-up boots occupies an entire couch. The demon has said boots kicked up and crossed at the ankle while he— _she?_ —he holds his phone above his face and taps out a text.

Madi stops abruptly beside him. “Aren’t you _Angel Dust_?”

 _Angel Dust, street name for PCP: a psychedelic drug causing hallucinations and feelings of dissociation…_ your brain recites from a distant memory of a mandated training seminar. 

“Yuh-huh,” he replies distractedly. “What of it?”

“The porn star,” Madi clarifies with an expression like he’s just dumped ice coffee down the front of her blouse. “You’re Angel Dust _the porn star.”_

You’re curious why a porn star would go by ‘Angel Dust.’ Is it supposed to mean he’s ‘addicting’? Or is _he_ an addict? Are there drugs in Hell? Maybe someone just liked the sound of it.

You’re also curious why and how Madi is able to identify said _porn star_ so quickly, but figure it’s not the kind of thing you should ask. 

“You a fan of mine, baby?” Angel Dust’s lips stretch into an insanely large, crooked, sharp smile. One of his shark’s teeth is gold. 

He seems lucid, at least, a little full of himself, maybe. Again, you wonder why a dead porn star would catch this director’s attention, when she’d barely blinked at you. 

Angel Dust’s long white bangs dip in front of an eye with a blackened sclera as his head tilts, appraising her. “What am I sayin’? ‘Course you are!” He turns to lean onto an elbow to better leer up at her. It feels like a pose, but then, everything about him feels a little posed. “Well, sorry to disappoint, sugar,” Angel Dust relaxes deeper into the couch cushions, though they don’t look all that comfortable to you, “but I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

The snakes in Madi’s hair curl and rattle, baring their fangs. 

Angel Dust pulls back a bit, grin faltering, “And I, uh, don’t do _snakes._ No offense.” The fluffy demon crosses and uncrosses his boots and glances to you. “Your friend, maybe.” He clicks his tongue like he’s calling a dog and it takes you a long second to realize why. 

You can feel the low growl in your throat even as you scoff. 

Madi’s snakes curl and writhe faster. One lunges toward the porn star demon, and she gives it a gentle swat back. She leans closer to Angel Dust, in a way that’s clearly meant to be menacing, but he leans in as well, dark manicured eyebrows bouncing up in anticipation.

“This lobby is for orientation guests only,” Madi informs him, hard and articulate. 

He must not be a newcomer like the rest of you. That explains her interest. And his tailored white and pink striped suit. Sort of.

“Psh,” Angel Dust leans back, evidently disappointed, and returns his attention to tapping at his phone. You notice he’s wearing red leather gloves. _Kinky._ “Who died and put you in charge, lady?”

“Lucifer,” she snaps, regal and composed, even if her snakes aren’t. “I am the director of this facility.” 

Well, she might be easily side-tracked by renegade porn stars, but at least you’re talking to the right lady. 

“ _Oh.”_ Angel Dust stills like he’s been back-handed, spine straightening. “Damn.” His smile vanishes. “Look it, lady, I’m volunteerin’, alright? Leading the next orientation session here in a few.” Angel Dust flutters a couple fingers toward the double doors labelled “Auditorium” back behind the check in tables. “It wasn’t the kinda _orientation_ I was hoping they was talking about when I signed up, but…” He shrugs. 

Madi straightens, arms crossing. “You expect me to believe _you’re_ volunteering?”

You’re beginning to think you could literally get away with just walking off, but a single scarlet, black and gold snake at the nape of her neck has its eyes trained on you specifically. And you _are_ trying to get off on good behavior here. _And_ this director might be the key to getting through to the real big shots.

Angel Dust seems to have forgotten the modicum of respect he had decided to show her. “There’s a lot of things I’ll _volunteer_ to do.” He waggles his eyebrows, draping a couple of his arms artfully over the back of the sofa. “When I’m in the right mood, anyway…” He winks your direction. “You know what I’m saying, canine?”

Your brows rise back, a strange yip of laughter rising from your throat. “God, I hope not.”

Madi’s face contorts, her snakes fanning out and her arms spreading. “Who the hell told you that you could volunteer here? I run this damn place and I never—”

Angel Dust’s grin returns, smugger. His hands fold in front of him, his head tilting back in thought. His voice is lilting, lazy, “Oh, you’ve probably met her. Cute as a button, dumb as a bitch, blonder than a bottle of bleach...”

Madi looks shades paler even before he says the name. 

“Charlie.”

Madi stops dead, takes a literal step back. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You wonder if his Charlie is Vaggie’s Charlie and Hotel Charlie, who used to run the place. It seems pretty likely, if she holds enough sway to set the gorgon on edge. But if Charlie’s some kind of power house and the porn star’s friend, why is he insulting her so much? 

Maybe he’s here to help with the probably-a-brothel hotel recruitment process and he doesn’t want the director to know? Your head is starting to spin. This much thinking is a lot on your probably-a-concussion. 

Angel Dust taps at his phone. You think you hear the Candy Crush jingle. “Nope.” His lips pop.

The gorgon groans. “Fine. I don’t have time to deal with this right now.” She glances back to you momentarily, and then back to Angel Dust. “If you’re _volunteering,_ then go get your room ready. Take this seriously.”

“Aw,” Angel Dust croons, in no great hurry despite her barking. “You sound just like my other boss. ‘Course, he’s a _pimp_ … so take that how you want.” You catch another flash of his gold tooth. 

_“Go,”_ Madi commands, all her snakes hissing in unison, her hands rising to the edge of her mirrored sunglasses again. 

Angel Dust flinches back into the couch and fumbles his phone. “Yeah, yeah, cool it, I’m going…!” He sputters, untangling his legs and scuttling off toward the auditorium with a grace that reminds you bizarrely of a spider. 

“Fucking politicians and their spawn…” Madi’s muttering as she motions for you to follow her down the hallway toward her office.

 _Politician spawn?_ you ponder as you fall in step beside her. _Angel? Charlie?_

 _Politicians? As in leaders of hell? As in ‘Hail Satan?’ As in ‘Princess Charlotte Magne’? Charlotte. As in…_ Charlie? 

“Fuck…” you mumble, as you limp along. 

You’re going to need to think about this later. Your head hurts, and so does the rest of you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warnings: Strong language; injuries; references to drugs, alcohol, and addiction; allusions to abduction; sexual harassment; murder threat; brief mentions of prostitution/brothels; character who is a porn star/prostitute; references to mass demon killing
> 
> Mm, this chapter wasn't as eventful as I wanted it to be, but Angel Dust demanded an introduction and it was getting long, so the drama had to wait.


End file.
